The Flowers
by cutting love
Summary: Sherlock goes on a shady secret mission for Mycroft, and finds little ways to remind John of his absence. Chapters one and two fairly innocent, mostly fluff, chapter three... not so much. Rated M for chapter three.
1. Chapter 1

"No." John folded down his newspaper. "No, absolutely not." He shook his head, huffing in disbelief, and leveraged himself out of his chair. "I don't know _where_ he gets off, thinking this is okay, but it is absolutely not. You will be staying here." He crossed his arms, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"John, you're joking." The detective was resting lazily on the couch, half fallen off and making no move to rescue himself. He twisted his neck to regard John, veins popping and bangs flopping away from his forehead as his upside down face turned toward the blogger. "It's a whole country! Admittedly, not ours, and probably nowhere Mycroft should be interfering, but-"

"I said no, Sherlock. You're not going alone." He crossed the room and heaved his detective back onto the couch, sitting down across the taller man's lap. Sherlock's breath hitched in, then stuttered out.

"Preposterous."

"I've got ways to make you stay, Sherlock…" John teased, running his fingers gently through Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock's eyes closed momentarily, reveling in the sensation of John's practiced touch.

"Yes, for a few hours perhaps, but how long until your stamina runs out?" Sherlock quipped, smiling slightly at John even as he tried to look aloof from what the ex-army doctor was doing.

"Pompous git."

"I'm curious, John!"

In the end, after much arguing, sarcastic silence, attempted sexual bribery, wheedling and resistance, it was decided that Sherlock would indeed take up Mycroft's offer to be sent to some (top secret) foreign land in an attempt to save the life of the current leader- or something. It wasn't exactly clear, which only made John less willing to agree to Mycroft's 'Sherlock only' demand. John was not particularly happy, and neither was Sherlock for that matter, but Mycroft was smugly preening when they called him to give assent. He had counted on his brother's curiosity, boredom, and wayward nature to build up the argument for going, though he'd worried that Sherlock's disdain for him (Mycroft) and love for John might work against the detective's brain and convince him to stay. Luckily, Sherlock still seemed to be functioning on the basis of head over heart (thank God; Mycroft wouldn't know what to do with a sappy Sherlock), and he had proven amenable- though somewhat insolent.

"Where exactly are you sticking your nose this time, Mycroft?" He sneered on the phone.

"You'll know when you need to, dear brother. Patience."

"Hmph. At least tell me what to pack." Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he impudently answered back.

"Clothes."

"No _shit_, Mycroft."

"Swearing, Sherlock? Tut tut, John's had a poor effect on your vocabulary."

"My vocabulary's just fine, you bastard, now tell me what to pack."

"I have the feeling that you'll simply bring what you want to, no matter what I tell you. I'll have someone waiting for you at your connection with instructions, proper equipment, and clothes. Bring your own basics; see you at Heathrow at noon on Monday." Mycroft hung up and leant back in his chair, steepling his fingertips against his mouth.

Sherlock flung his phone moodily at the couch, narrowly missing John's knee. "Bastard didn't tell me where I'm going. Didn't even give me a chance to mock his diet. He ate two biscuits this morning; I could hear his back teeth sticking together. Sugary paste. Ugh." He threw himself melodramatically down, head in John's lap.

"Still ignoring you." John folded his arms, looking upwards, away from the dark-haired head resting on his leg.

"Oh? What if I…" And with no further warning, Sherlock rolled over and pressed his mouth to John's groin, huffing out a warm breath.

The blogger jumped, hips jerking. "Oh _god_, Sherlock-"

"Knew it. Weak will." Sherlock spoke without moving his head, and every word made John squirm. He knotted one hand in Sherlock's disheveled hair as the detective began trying to work John's trousers open.

"Mmm. If you say so. Just keep going."


	2. Chapter 2

It'd been several days since Sherlock had left, and John was becoming almost irked by all the little ways that Sherlock was finding to remind John of his absence. His scarf left on John's bed the first night, that stupid two-fronted hat on John's chair… It had been almost disturbingly quiet since Sherlock had left, which was why John was taking the opportunity to work overtime at the surgery. Not only was he certain of his day being uninterrupted, he really didn't want to sit aimlessly around 221B without Sherlock. His days were remarkably tedious; wake up to his alarm rather than Sherlock, make breakfast for only one person -without finding any body parts or half-finished experiments, no less- shower and get dressed without disturbance, go to work and come home for a spot of boring, mindless telly and a lonely bed. His hands were starting to shake the slightest bit, even with the worry of what might be happening to Sherlock, and John was fairly certain that his limp would've been back too, except for the flowers.

Every day since Sherlock had left, John had been getting flowers. The first time, it was forget-me-nots, left on his doorstep in a big bunch. Cinched around the stems was a stopwatch, which on closer inspection John found to be running backwards. He soon realized that it was counting down, and he'd panicked for a few hours at the possibility that Moriarty or someone else was taking advantage of Sherlock's being gone to pull something major. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it might be, and just as he was becoming desperate, his fears were put to rest, when Sarah brought him more forget-me-nots on his break. She knocked once on the open door, standing in the doorway looking confused. "These were just brought in by… well, honestly- I think he's that guy who sleeps on the bench down the street."

"Homeless network," John exhaled in relief. "Good. Any note?"

Sarah quirked her head in inquiry, but John shrugged it off, and she held up a piece of stationary John recognized as having come from one of his own notebooks back at the flat. It was creased down the center, and he unfolded it to reveal a juvenile message; a heart drawn with the letters JW and SH inside it. If he'd had any doubt that it was from Sherlock, it was alleviated by the drawing; the heart was anatomically correct, and the letters were scrawled inside the left ventricle, which Sherlock had been dissecting on their kitchen table just before he left. So, the watch then… ah. That had to be time until Sherlock came home. John shook his head, not sure if he was amused or upset.

"Thanks, Sarah." He smiled, and she nodded and left. John checked the watch, and did some math on the corner of his calendar. Sherlock would be home in ten days. That wasn't so bad, right? John could make it ten days.

He didn't get any more flowers at work, but they came without fail every day, waiting for him on the step of 221B when he arrived home, looking fresh as though they'd been put down seconds before his arrival. Forget-me-nots on the first day, with a watch. The second day, heather, and John sat on that hat, which definitely hadn't been there the day before (for a moment, he was mildly put-off by the thought of a stranger in their flat, but he later found a plate of scones and a note from Mrs. Hudson- she was in on the plot). John found hyacinth and holly on his doorstep the third day, and spent a few minutes on the internet figuring out what all these flowers meant; Sherlock wasn't the type to give flowers just because they were pretty. On the fourth day, he was mildly embarrassed to find pansies, orchids, and lilacs grouped haphazardly on the mat, but that was the day that his hands started to have intermittent tremors, so he scooped up the flowers thankfully, a reminder that Sherlock was out there and was coming back. The fifth day, Sherlock's phone was on the table, with a text on the screen (from the owner of the device) reading, "I can't have this where I am. Here's what I think of you." The second bit confused John until he closed the message, realizing that the background of the phone was covered in a riot of geraniums , gardenia, gladiolus, and larkspur. He had to search flower meanings again, and almost teared up a bit when he found the respective 'comfort,' 'joy,' 'strength of character,' 'beautiful spirit' meanings. Of course, he wouldn't admit it. Would've claimed allergies from all the pollen in the flat.

But the most touching was the sixth day, when bouquets of 'first love' and 'domestic happiness' showed up alongside 'passion' and 'hopelessly in love' in the form of lilac, holly, red roses, and yellow tulips. John didn't know what to do with all the flowers, some of which were starting to wilt, and by the seventh day his new bouquet of wisteria joined all the others, hanging upside down in the kitchen to dry. It was something he had seen his mother do, and now he was grateful for the knowledge.

When his dreams started being more about battlefields than anything else, he dragged a comforter and a pillow into the kitchen, making a nest on the floor where he could smell the flowers Sherlock had sent him. As ridiculous as he felt, it really did help. He drifted off to sleep with sensory input confirming that someone very special loved him, and that did comfort him enough to make his dreams a little less dreadful. He'd prefer to have Sherlock to hold close, but sleeping with the detective's scarf, surrounded by tokens of Sherlock's love (that gave off a comforting scent, no less) was as good as he was going to get at the moment, and though he wasn't satisfied, it was enough.

Having the flowers to smile at every morning was almost like having Sherlock to smile at, except that the flowers didn't smile back. Or sigh in exasperation, or deduce random facts, or have sexy hair to fluff, or kiss him, or- okay, having the flowers was nothing like having Sherlock. He missed his detective badly, and though the flowers were a sweet and somewhat reassuring connection, they didn't compare to having Sherlock safely back. Most of John's mind was usually preoccupied with worrying over Sherlock, but he also felt like he'd know if something happened. He trusted Mycroft that far.

Still, he was getting more annoyed by the day, wound up with tension over the detective's safety, and reminded of how badly he missed his pain in the arse of a flatmate. He wanted nothing more than to hold Sherlock tightly, run his hands through the taller man's hair, see that playful sparkle in his eyes, and watch him bite his lip shyly. He just wanted his Sherlock back safely. True, they were almost always getting themselves into danger in London, but at least then John was there, one step behind Sherlock, aware of what was going on and present in case of emergency.

The seventh day Sherlock was gone was a day John had off, despite his best intentions, and he spent almost all of it moping around the flat, cleaning a bit and watching crap telly. Mrs. Hudson came up for a cuppa, and brought a bouquet of violets "from him," smiling around the kitchen at the groups of flowers John had kept. Thankfully, he'd picked up his makeshift bed, but he made awkward conversation nonetheless, and she left after a bit, saying she had to mind the store. John was once again left with nothing to do but keep checking the watch from the first day, which he tried to resist doing because it seemed to make the damn thing run more slowly. Around six in the evening, his phone rang, and he dived for it. "John Watson," He answered rapidly.

"John, hello," It was Lestrade, and John sank back into his chair, realizing belatedly that he'd been hoping for Mycroft, hoping for news about Sherlock.

"Hey, Greg. What's up?"

"I've got this case…"

"He's not back yet, Greg."

"Right." The D.I. sighed. "Well, do you know how long it'll be? Only, there's a bit of a rush…"

"Hang on." He checked the watch. "Fifty two hours and twenty minutes."

"So, what, two days? It'll be fine, it's not a murder or anything. Just, I was hoping to have it finished up soon. It's a vandalism case, at a museum, and they're moving in a big exhibit soon, so they want security cleaned up and everything… yeah. Three days, won't kill them. Maybe we'll even figure it out by then."

"Right," John responded, not knowing what else to say.

"Right, well, try not to enjoy yourself too much. Gotta get back to the job."

"Goodbye,"

"Right." Greg hung up, leaving John more frustrated than before. _See_, he thought, _we need you here too, Sherlock. More people than me need you. Get home already._

He slept uneasily, despite the smell of the flowers, and though his hands shook more on the eighth day, it turned out to be more pleasant. He found large sunflowers beside the door when he left, took a moment to carry them back inside, and received the pleasant surprise of even more sunflowers on his arrival back home that night. Also, Sherlock's phone was vibrating, and he opened it to find a message from Mycroft: "Dear John. This is from Sherlock. He wants you to know that he's doing well and will be home as intimated. He also says to tell you that he loves you." John smiled. Good. Mycroft had to type out the word love; picturing the slight disgusted sneer on the git's face made John even happier than reading a message of Sherlock's love would have alone, which was saying something. The message continued, "I've no doubt that he's told you when he'll be home, but you ought to know where; Heathrow airport, terminal two. If you'd like to meet him. –MH"

John smiled again, happier than he'd been since Sherlock left. He knew when and where he'd be seeing his detective again, and he knew that Sherlock was alive and having at least some modicum of success. He was still smiling when he found the flowers for day nine; white carnations for remembrance and bachelor's button for anticipation. He hung them upside down with the rest, and managed to get almost a full night's sleep, knowing that he only had one more night. Sure, the kitchen floor was uncomfortable, but he'd be back in bed soon. Back in bed with Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

John stood anxiously at the terminal, shifting his weight from foot to foot. This was the day, the time, the place, that Sherlock was supposed to come home. If he didn't show up… John was nervously winding himself up, preparing for everything from angry phone calls with Mycroft to leading a rescue operation. Invading Afghanistan hadn't made him this nervous. He'd been able to see the enemy then; now it was just a cloud of concern around him, worry that Sherlock wasn't okay. He didn't know what to do to make Sherlock okay, and he didn't know what he'd do if Sherlock didn't come home. He flinched at every sound, and when the flight arrival was announced he jumped, pressing his armful of Sherlock's things closer to his chest. The genius' scarf, stupid hat, gloves, mobile… Little things he'd left for John.

Passengers began stumbling wearily off the plane. John heard a great commotion from the end of the ramp, and for once he found himself hoping that the source of the disturbance was Sherlock.

Sure enough, the detective burst through the throng of people, coat billowing, shouting back at some woman who'd apparently had the audacity to assume he was normal and wouldn't pull her life apart at the seams. He stopped dead in the mouth of the disembarking ramp and looked around. "John?"

"Sherlock!" John choked on his relief and tried again. "Sherlock!"

The second time, the brunet heard, and turned on his heel, recklessly closing the gap between them with long, quick strides. "John!" Sherlock exclaimed, scooping his blogger unceremoniously into his arms and spinning. The coat swirled around them while John wondered exactly how much sugar Sherlock had eaten on the plane, and when the last time the hyper energetic detective had slept was. Trapped snugly against Sherlock's warm chest was incredibly comforting, a tiny bit humiliating, and really very unnecessary. Sherlock put him down and began to run his hands gently over John, skimming the blogger's shoulders and torso to reassure himself that John was really there to meet him, had really waited. John realized he didn't care how it looked, or whether people would talk. Sherlock was home. Sherlock was staring at him with concentration and confusion and joy. Sherlock was taking John's face in his hands and John sighed thankfully as Sherlock's mouth pressed against his own.

"John…" The detective whispered when they had drawn apart. His fingertips lightly stroked one side of John's face, more delicately than he'd perhaps ever touched another living person. "I mean- it's- I'm-" he fumbled for words and jerked upright as he realized how _gentle_ he was being. "Good to see you, John."

"I missed you too, you know." John tipped his head, licking his lips into a smile and clutching again at the bundle of Sherlock's things. Sherlock's face softened again as he realized that he was not going to be ridiculed for his sentimentality. He took his gaze from John's face for the first time.

"Really, John, you had to bring-" He bit off his criticism abruptly, remembering John's leniency and recovering his own. "Let's go home, John."

"Okay, Sherlock." The doctor smiled but did not move until the detective put an arm around his waist and led him back to 221B.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock wasted no time. Carefully, he took his things from John and set them on the table. He removed John's jacket with forced patience, and undid the doctor's shirt buttons so delicately that it was as though he thought John would break if he moved too fast. Once John was shirtless and tugging on Sherlock's belt, however, the detective lost his presence of mind a bit. A low moan escaped his throat as he pressed against his blogger desperately, hands lifting John onto his toes so Sherlock could kiss him properly. John kissed back hungrily, tongue pressing into Sherlock's mouth and arms gripping tight around the taller man's shoulders. John felt himself lifted entirely off his feet as Sherlock sat down on the arm of John's chair. His large, pale hands pried John's legs demandingly apart, so that doctor straddled detective, and John moaned deeply into Sherlock's mouth. He'd been so busy missing the man's presence and worrying for his safety, he almost hadn't noticed exactly how much he'd missed _this_. He pushed his right hand through the curly hair on the back of Sherlock's head, where it was most sensitive. The brunet shivered convulsively and made an absolutely unholy sound as John ground their hips together. Sherlock's hands ran fervently across his blogger, enjoying John's bare torso.

"Missed-you-" Sherlock panted into the slight space between them as John tugged his hair and he bucked up into John's slightly rocking hips.

"Mphm." John bit down on his own reply as Sherlock bent his head and began licking and biting a trail along the side of his neck. "Missed. You. Too." His words were forced out, punctuated by ragged gasps as Sherlock began to trace his fingertips across John's pectorals and bite simultaneously at a sensitive spot just under his left ear. "Talk later."

Sherlock rumbled his agreement. "Yes. Bedroom?"

John nodded, flexing his hands and drawing his fingernails across Sherlock's shoulders. He stood, and held a hand out to Sherlock, even though his own knees felt dangerously weak and the detective probably didn't want his help anyway- Sherlock seized his hand and hauled John close, crushing him in a hug. "Don't let me leave you again." He murmured into John's hair.

John didn't know what to say, knowing that whatever he said would be wrong or inadequate, so he just hugged Sherlock back and nudged his chin down for a kiss.

Due to both of their states of persistent arousal, when their lips came together both grasped for a tighter hold, never mind that it was supposed to be a sweet kiss. John locked his arms around Sherlock and allowed himself to be gracelessly lifted and awkwardly carried into the bedroom. Sherlock set him down gently at the foot of the bed. "Well?" His deep voice was husky.

"Well what?" John fought to keep his voice normal, a bit teasing.

Sherlock tucked his lips briefly into his mouth. "How-?"

"Undress for me," John interrupted, sitting on the bed and toeing off his shoes. He moved back until his shoulders rested against the wall.

Sherlock watched him go regretfully. His empty hands twitched longingly toward John before he began to oblige the doctor, undoing each button on his shirt with a casual flick, eyeing John lasciviously.

The doctor grunted appreciatively as Sherlock allowed his shirt to fall to the floor, running his hands sensually down his own chest, fingertips sliding lightly down to rest on his belt buckle. He paused a moment, listening to John's breath hitch, before gracefully undoing his belt and sliding it off entirely, leaving his trousers to hang a little loosely on his hips. He adopted a pose, drawing one foot back and resting his weight on it, twisted so John could see his pale torso and angular hipbones, in line with his cheekbones as he looked downward, bashfully avoiding John's gaze. He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his trousers, taking a deep breath. As he exhaled a moment later, he tipped his head back, closing his eyes and allowing his mouth to fall slightly open, throat bobbing as he slowly unzipped his trousers. He stepped out of them and stretched, extending his arms and standing on the balls of his feet for a moment, eyes opening lazily to regard John as the blogger let out an appreciative moan, one hand already opening his own trousers. "Leave the pants on, Sherlock, and come here."

"Yes sir," Sherlock purred, sliding up the bed to settle on his side next to John. His clever fingers unclasped John's belt buckle while he kissed the blogger's chest, and one of John's hands knotted in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock slipped his weight partially atop John, who moaned again at the contact and pressure of Sherlock's hand, teasing at the waist of his pants.

Sherlock bit at his collarbone, and abandoned the attempt to remove John's trousers, rubbing his hand greedily over John's crotch instead. The doctor moaned more loudly this time, and Sherlock whimpered too, pressing harder into John. He whined softly, arching and rubbing for a moment or two, making John buck his hips hard into Sherlock's hand. "Pants- off." John demanded.

"Not yet… want to slow down." Even as he said it, Sherlock squeezed John's cock through the thin fabric of his pants, simultaneously raking the nail of his little finger across John's belt line. The doctor bucked his hips with a gasp.

"Not doing- very well."

"Sorry," Sherlock moved away, rolling onto his knees.

"Come- back here." John lay still, waiting. Sherlock carefully slipped John's trousers down, being as careful as possible to not touch the blogger's skin.

He tapped John's hip to make the doctor raise up, and Sherlock slid off the trousers and pants all the way, sighing, "I've missed you," before settling himself in John's lap, straddling his hips. John moaned loudly, gripping Sherlock's hips and grinding their bodies together. Sherlock bent and began to kiss and lick John's torso, making him writhe and buck upward. The friction between them was fantastic, and John released another moan, while Sherlock replied with whisper-soft whimpers into John's chest. Sherlock moved easily along with John's bucking hips, riding his motions with closed eyes and curled toes. Once accustomed to the slow thrusting, Sherlock reopened his eyes and watched John with lust-blown pupils ringed by irises that had turned galaxy-green.

"So beautiful."

"Hurry up."

John thrust faster, and Sherlock raised up momentarily to remove his own pants, finally bringing their bodies together, completely bare. He rolled, flipping them easily, and pulling John atop him. Lustful sighs and small, needy tremors shook through him as John pressed down atop him, kissing him deeply and sliding a careful hand between his legs. "So fucking beautiful, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached up to hold John's hair as he eased down. "Please," he cried as he felt John's hardness press his entrance.

"What happened- to going slow?" John panted teasingly, lovingly.

"Your attractive qualities overpowered my resolve," Sherlock huffed out an academic answer, squirming, trying to get into position as John reached into their bedside drawer for the lube.

"I see." John smiled. Being in love with Sherlock Holmes was a fucking fantastic feeling, particularly at times like this, he reflected as Sherlock thrust impatiently up, fingernails digging in and making John gasp at the combination pain and pleasure.

"John…" Sherlock's voice was needy, but held an undertone of the commanding impatience John was used to obliging. He smiled, kissing Sherlock, who bit his lip and pushed back onto John's slick hand. He moaned. "John…"

"Sherlock," John moaned back, and began gently fucking Sherlock, who gave a soft cry and arched, raking his nails down John's back and fisting the other hand in his blogger's hair.

"Harder, John."

He happily obliged, grunting as he sloppily tried to kiss Sherlock, who tossed his head back uncooperatively and sighed, the sigh becoming a series of small gasps as John bit his neck in time with his thrusts.

"John!" Sherlock came, trembling , and his grip on John tightened, pulling his blogger closer as John's answering climax rippled through them both.

"'M glad you're home, Sherlock," John said into his detective's neck. Sherlock squeezed him tighter, nestling into him as though he planned to stay just there for a very long time.


End file.
